The Corsican Gambit

by Sandra Marton

  "But the citadel is Spanish, isn't it?"

  His brows arched in surprise. "It is, yes. That's quite a good guess."

  Francesca shrugged. "It wasn't a guess at all. The arches and the stonework give it away."

  He laughed softly as he put his arm around her shoulders. "For a woman who specializes in looking beautiful, you surprise me from time to time, cara."

  She twisted free of his encircling arm. "What I specialize in," she said with taut dignity, "is art history. I have a degree in it."

  Max looked at her. "Do you?" he said, as if she'd just told him she could read tea leaves.

  "Yes." Her voice grew even colder. "I hope you didn't pay a fortune for the tapestries in my bedroom." She gave him a steady look. "They're not really Gobelins, you know. They're good. Very good. But-"

  "But not Gobelins." He grinned as he put his arm around her shoulders again. It was a light gesture, meant only to guide her through the narrow, increasingly crowded streets, and she decided to ignore it. "No, they're not. They're seventeenth century, and not worth half what I paid for them. I knew that when I bought them, but I fell in love with the colors."

  She looked at him in surprise. "Did you?"

  "Does that surprise you?" He smiled tightly. "That the barbarian should have a passion for art, I mean?"

  Her face colored. "I didn't say that."

  "You didn't have to." His voice softened. "You see? We still don't know very much about each other."

  Her mouth felt dry. "We know all we need to know," she said stiffly.

  Max's smile faded and, for just a few seconds, he looked at her as if they were alone in the world.

  "No," he said quietly, "we do not." His arm tight­ened around her. "And I think, today, we will remedy that once and for all."

  She tried not to fall into the trap he was setting, because it was a trap, she was sure of it. Whatever his game was, it involved getting past her defenses, changing her opinion of him little by little.

  But somehow, as the hours passed, she found herself weakening, despite her determination not to succumb. The Max Donelli she'd glimpsed the night they'd dined together was back, and he was a man of great charm and easy conversation.

  How could she not smile when he insisted she looked as pretty in the colorful cotton skirt and blouse she'd selected from a little market shop as she had in the gown she'd worn the night they'd met? She changed her clothing in a tiny room at the back of the little shop he'd taken her to; by the time she emerged, he was standing at the counter, his arms piled high with packages.

  "What is all that?" she asked, and he smiled mysteriously.

  "Things," he said and would say no more. But she knew he must have bought everything she'd so much as looked at; the sly smile on the face of the shopkeeper was a dead giveaway.

  They loaded the packages in the car, and then set out on a slow walking tour of the city. Within minutes, Francesca was smiling again. Max was her tour guide, he said, and this was the Donelli Special. No pro­fessional guide, he insisted, could possibly sum up Corsican history as well as he.

  "It's all quite simple," he said, smiling, but she saw a hint of sorrow in the smile. "Over the centuries, the island has been conquered by everybody. The Genoese, the Spanish-"

  "And now?"

  Max shrugged. "And now it's French." He smiled. "Well, its laws are French. But its heart is Corsican, and always will be."

  "Like yours?" she said, watching him. "You told me you were born in New York City, but you're not really a New Yorker, are you?"

  His teeth glinted in a quick smile. "No. I have a town house in Georgetown."

  "But you weren't raised in the States," she said, "were you?"

  Max shook his head. "My parents emigrated to America before I was born. But when I was fourteen my father died and my mother decided it would be best if she took me back to her family in Corsica."

  Of course, she thought, that explained it. His accent, his way of dealing with things, as if he was a man with a foot in two cultures.

  "And you prefer Corsica," she said softly.

  He shrugged as he guided her to an outdoor cafe and seated her at a table beneath an umbrella. "This is a hard, unforgiving land," he said. "But there is a beauty to it, a wildness that will always hold my heart." He glanced up at the waiter who'd appeared beside the table. "Shall I order for you, Francesca?"

  No, she thought, of course not. I'll order for myself.

  But there wasn't time to say anything. He was already telling the waiter what they wanted, his hands as ex­pressive as his voice. Francesca watched him from under the sweep of her lashes as he frowned over the menu. There was a wildness to him, too, the same wildness she had sensed before. A wildness as beautiful and as un­tamed as the land.

  It was almost impossible for her to believe that she was seated at an outdoor cafe with a man wearing faded jeans and a navy cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled back along his forearms, obviously at home in a place that was as foreign to her as the moon. His skin was tanned, the color of wild honey, and his hair needed cutting, she thought idly. It brushed his collar each time he moved his head. She remembered how silken it had felt when she'd buried her fingers in it the last time he'd taken her in his arms and kissed her.

  "So." His voice startled her. She blinked and looked at him. He was smiling, watching her through eyes as dark as the night. "What do you do with your degree in art history?" He smiled. "Besides check the prov­enance of the art work you stumble across, hmm?"

  Francesca met his gaze steadily. "I didn't exactly `stumble across your tapestries," she said quietly.

  Max's smile vanished. "No. You did not." He fell silent when the waiter appeared with a bottle of red wine. "Va bene," he said, waving away the usual ceremony that went with opening the wine, just as he had at Stefan's cafe that first night.

  Charles would have made a production of it, sniffing the cork and frowning while he sipped the liquid. The thought tripped into her mind without warning, and she shifted uneasily in her seat under the weight of its disloyalty.

  "Max." Her voice trembled a little. He looked up and their eyes met. "You must take me back," she said quickly. "Just because you hate my stepbrother-"

  "He stole from me, do you know that?" His mouth twisted as he leaned across the table toward her. "He bought the favors of a trusted employee, someone who knew the access code to my computer system, and with it he stole my client list."

  "No:' Francesca shook her head from side to side. "He wouldn't. He didn't. He--"

  Max caught hold of her hand and held it tightly in his. "I could have survived that. But he stole the heart of my firm, Francesca, he stole my research and in­vestment strategies." His face darkened. "Your step­brother is a thief."

  "No." The word was torn from her lips. Her chair clattered against the pavement as she pulled her hand free of his and struggled to her feet. "You're lying. Charles would never do something like that."

  "Wouldn't he? Then, how did Spencer's suddenly become so successful?"

  "Charles guided it. He made the right decisions..."

  Max uttered a sharp, ugly word. "The only decision he made was to take that which was mine."

  Tears rose in her eyes. "I see. And you-you decided to get even by-by taking that which was his."

  She clapped her hand to her mouth, turned, and ran through the closely packed tables until she reached a narrow alleyway. Her footsteps quickened when she heard Max call after her. There was a square ahead; she could see the snarl of traffic, hear the bleat of horns. All she had to do was reach it, bang on a car door, scream for help...

  She cried out as he caught her and spun her around to face him. "Let me go," she gasped. Her breath whistled in and out of her lungs as she pounded her fists on his chest. "Damn you, Max— "

  His mouth slanted down hungrily on hers. She struggled against him, but it was useless. His arms went around her, gathering her to him; she fell back under his weight as he pressed her shoulders agai
nst the wall in the narrow alley.

  When, at long last, he lifted his head and looked at her, she was shaking. Tears glistened in her lashes, then rolled down her cheeks.

  "Francesca," he whispered. His hands slipped up into her hair, and he lifted her tear-dampened face to his. "Francesca," he said again, and she made a little sobbing sound deep in her throat.

  "Damn you," she said fiercely.

  But when he bent to her, her lips parted. Her arms wound tightly around his neck as she rose on tiptoe and crushed her body against his, and she kissed him and kissed him, as if she feared that this one breathless moment in time might never come again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  FRANCESCA had to escape. There was no other solution, short of becoming even crazier than she already was, for surely only insanity could have made her behave as she had in Corte.

  Days had gone by but she couldn't stop thinking about it. The humiliating memory would come to haunt her when she least expected it-as it had just now, she thought as she rose unsteadily from her chair. There she'd been, sitting in the library, deep in a book she'd taken from the well-stocked shelves, and all at once the print on the page blurred and she found herself thinking of how she must have looked that afternoon, with her arms wound tightly around Max's neck, clinging to him as if she'd never want to be anywhere else.

  Francesca made a little sound of impatience and blinked the image away. What had happened was simple enough to understand. She was his captive, she'd been under stress and she'd been disoriented. And then-and then, she thought grimly as she paced to the windows, there was the attraction she'd felt to Max when they'd first met It was purely sexual-not a very comforting thing to admit to herself but true, just the same.

  Sighing, she drew back the curtains and gazed out at the tranquil landscape. She understood that attraction, too. It had nothing to do with Max, it was just that he was so unlike the men she knew. He would never stand around at a cocktail party, making small talk so gossipy and banal that it made her ears ache just to listen. And he'd never come on to a woman the way the Marquis had, as if she were a mindless bit of entertainment to be had for the asking. Max was too proudly male, too el­emental for such stuff. He would say what had to be said, and to hell with the consequences. And he would tell a woman what he wanted, what he felt, and that woman would go to him gladly, eagerly...

  Francesca closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the glass. Yes, she thought, yes, she really did have to get away from here, and the sooner the better. She was coming apart, unraveling slowly but surely like the hem of a knitted sweater, and never mind that she hadn't seen Max for more than a few moments at a time since that afternoon in Corte- and she understood that, as well. The look on his face when the kiss had ended had said it all. He'd stared at her through cold eyes, just as he had the night at the casino when he'd watched the Marques pawing her, and she'd known he must be thinking that she would give herself to any man if the situation was exciting enough for her.

  I'm not what you think, she'd almost cried out, but sanity had prevailed and she'd choked back the words. Why did she give a damn what Max thought?

  And yet-and yet, her heart ached when she remem­bered how he'd looked at her and the harshness in his voice when he'd finally spoken.

  "It's getting late," he'd said, as if that moment of wildness between them had never occurred. "We must start back. The roads can be treacherous at night."

  Inexplicably, her eyes had filled with tears. She'd have run off then, if she could have, but Max had read her thoughts again and his hand had clamped around her wrist, his fingers cold and hard as steel.

  "Don't even think of it," he said grimly, and mo­ments later they were seated in the car, moving swiftly away from the town and civilisation, into the silent countryside that surrounded them.

  Francesca sat huddled in the corner of the car during the long drive to Sarcene, watching him, waiting for him to say something-anything-but Max never even glanced in her direction and finally she cleared her throat.

  "You must let me go," she said softly. "Surely you see that."

  He didn't answer. After a long time, she tried again.

  "Max, for God's sake-what's the point to this? You can't—“

  "Do you know what Corsica has given the world, Francesca?"

  The question made no sense. But there was a darkness in his tone that made her wary.

  "Napoleon," she said slowly, her puzzlement evident in her voice. "But that has nothing to do with-"

  "The vendetta," he said abruptly. "The word is Corsican. Do you know what it means?"

  "Yes," she'd said slowly, "I think so. It means-it means getting even with someone for something he's done to you."

  His laughter had a bitter sound. "In the old days, it meant a blood feud, but as my countrymen became more civilized it became sufficient to recover one's honor without going quite as far as that."

  Again, she felt the foolish sting of tears in her eyes. "And that's what all this has been," she said stiffly, "a vendetta against Charles. I knew that all the time."

  The brakes screamed as Max stood on them and swerved to the narrow shoulder of the road.

  "No," he snarled as the car came to a stop, "no, it was not. Despite what you think, Francesca, I am not a savage. This was-it was an opening move-a gambit."

  "I don't understand," she whispered into the silence, and Max made a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan.

  "There are those who cling to the old ways," he said, "who believe that what was done in the past was right. I never agreed. I always prided myself on being a man whose heart belonged to Corsica but whose mind be­longed to the twentieth century. But now-now I wonder..."

  Bewildered, she could only shake her head. Max stared at her for what had seemed a long time, and then he reached across the seat to her, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her, so tenderly and gently that she was incapable of doing anything but giving in to the sweet seduction of his lips.

  She heard the shuddering hiss of his breath when he finally moved away from her.

  "I can't let you go, cara," he said in a voice as soft as his kiss. In the fading light of evening, his face had suddenly seemed white and drawn. "But I make you a promise. I will not bother you any more."

  Why did his words make her tremble? "What-what do you mean?"

  Max took a deep breath. "When we reach Sarcene," he said, his hands tight on the steering wheel, "I will give my people orders that you are to be allowed the run of the place."

  "You mean-"

  "I mean," he'd said, his voice turning cold, "that you may walk the grounds, use the library, anything you like-" The car had skidded onto the road as he stepped down hard on the gas. "Someone will always accompany you, of course."

  Francesca had felt a sudden, terrible weariness. "Of course," she'd said, putting her head back against the seat.

  "But it will not be me. I have-I have things to do while I am at Sarcene, too many of them to spend my time being with you. Do you understand?"

  No, she hadn't understood, she thought now as she leaned back against the library wall. Not all of it, anyway, only enough to know that she had to find a way to escape Sarcene and Max Donelli before it was too late, or she would be lost forever.

  "Signorina?" Startled, Francesca turned to face the door where Giulia stood, smiling politely. "Desidera una tazza di caffe?"

  Francesca shook her head. Coffee, she thought with a sad little smile, the universal panacea. "No, thank you.”

  The housekeeper held out a folded note. She took it, her fingers moving lightly over the heavy vellum paper. She didn't have to read it, she knew what it would say. She hadn't seen Max since that day they'd returned from Corte; instead, he sent her these polite little messages. "Do you need anything?" he wrote. "Are you comfort­able? I'm sorry, but there is much to do on the estate. I'm afraid I'll be gone for breakfast-and lunch and dinner."

  "Grazie, " she said.

  Giulia's black
eyes softened. "Signorina? Come sta?"

  Francesca nodded. "Sono bene, grazie."

  The housekeeper smiled. "Lei parla molte bene."

  Francesca smiled, too. You speak well, Giulia had said. If she'd made any progress it was because it was easier to attempt learning the language spoken at Sarcene than to spend her days living on hatred. And hatred was what she felt for Max, pure and simple. She despised him, and never mind that she kept hoping for a glimpse of him, that she kept remembering that kiss, that one dizzying kiss in Corte.

  She moved toward the window and stared through the glass. It was a beautiful day, the sun hot, the sky a per­fect blue, the golden fields ruffling like the ocean under the perfumed breeze. A lump rose in her throat. Charles had wanted to buy a caged bird once, some rare and exotic feathered jewel that cost a small fortune. Only the best people in New York could afford them, he'd boasted, but one look at the creature sitting in its ornate cage had made Francesca shudder.

  "Nothing should live that way," she'd said, and she hadn't backed down, even in the face of Charles's irritation.

  That was how she felt now, she thought, like a creature trapped in a cage. Maybe that was why she kept thinking about Max. Weren't captives supposed to form bonds with their captors? That would explain it all. That would...

  She went very still. Far in the distance, a man rode across the golden field on the back of a night-dark stallion, its head angled as proudly as that of its master.

  Francesca's heart turned over in her breast. Max, she thought. Max. She stepped back, although she knew he couldn't possibly see her. The net curtains protected her, and anyway the sun would be in his eyes.

  Her blood slowed, thickened. She could hear it beating against her eardrums along with the silence of the hot, still afternoon. Her hand flew to her mouth as the horse stopped and the rider turned his head until he was looking at the castle.

  He can't see me, she told herself again. I know he can't.

  And yet-and yet she could feel those dark eyes on her. She could hear his voice inside her head. Come to me, cara, he said, come to me.